Coming Home (23 page)

Silence. Breathe, Evie. Breathe. ‘You should go,’ I said faintly. I fumbled in my purse, put money on the table. ‘It’s a nice place. For holidays.’

‘I’d love to go,’ said Tom.

‘You should. Just avoid the summer. It’s hot.’

‘When’s a good time?’

‘April. October.’

‘OK. Cool. I’ll start saving.’ He picked up the money.

‘Bye then,’ he said.

‘Bye.’

Dazed, I stepped out of the warmth of the café and into the cold air, wrapping my scarf about me as I went. What had just happened between Tom and me? Although we’d only made small talk, I felt like a completely different conversation had transpired without words; a whole different layer of communication had taken place. I slumped against the wall of the neighbouring shop.

But then, a commotion to the side; the clatter of the café door opening, banging back on its frame, the jangle of the bell and a loud shout: ‘Evie! Wait!’

I snapped to attention, turned towards the shout. Tom, in
his barista’s apron, stood in the doorway of Harry’s Café, his arm raised and his mouth still open. He stared at me and I stood on the pavement and stared back at him. The world—the buses, the people, the cars, the shops—it all fell away. It was just my half-brother and me on the pavement staring at each other. Did he feel the pull? Did he know? Looking into his eyes it was impossible that we were not related. I was Alice falling down the rabbit hole. Was Tom falling, too?

He took a step towards me, letting go of the door, which swung shut behind him.

‘Yes?’ I said, my voice a croak.

The moment broken, he passed a hand through his hair then took a step towards me. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘It is Evie, isn’t it?’

I nodded.

He opened his mouth, then closed it again. Started to say something and stopped.

‘What is it?’ I said.

‘I … I just …’ He shook his head, running his hand through his hair again. ‘I’m sorry. I made a mistake. I thought I gave you the wrong change. But no. You’re all right.’ He turned back towards the café.

‘You know, don’t you?’ I said, not knowing where my voice came from; how I found the courage to say perhaps the bravest four words I’d ever said.

Tom turned slowly back to me, his eyes burning into my soul. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I do. I hoped you’d get in touch.’

I
realised that Tom was holding out his hand to me. I took it in my own, hyper-aware of the dry warmth of it and we shook hands like business associates.

‘Nice to meet you,’ said my half-brother.

‘Nice to meet you, too,’ I said, feeling absurd. We let our hands drop and there was a silence.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said finally. ‘This is a bit surreal. I hadn’t expected this at all. I don’t know what to say.’ Tears suddenly sprung into my eyes and I brushed at them, embarrassed. ‘Oh God. That’s all I need.’

‘You’ve only just found out?’ he asked.

I nodded, swiping my hand across my face.

‘Ahhh.’ He exhaled slowly through his mouth, like he’d been for a run. ‘Did you come here just to see me?’

I nodded again. ‘I saw you worked here. On Twitter.’

‘Ahh,’ he said again. ‘That makes sense.’ A pause. ‘Sorry about your dad.’

‘Yours too. Technically!’

‘Yes.’ He looked up and down the pavement. ‘Does anyone know you’re here? Your mum?’

I shook my head.

‘OK,’ he said. Then he looked anxiously back at the café. ‘Look. I’m really sorry to do this to you right now, but it’s the start of the lunch rush and we’re short-staffed today. The boss is a complete dragon. I really need to get back in there.’

I must have looked crestfallen for Tom reached out and squeezed my arm. ‘Don’t get me wrong,’ he said, searching for my eyes. ‘I’m so glad you came. But rather than us having a half-baked conversation on the pavement, let’s do this properly. Why don’t we take some time to think about it and then get back in touch when the dust’s settled a bit and we’ve got time to talk properly? Does that sound like a sensible plan?’

Wordless, I nodded. Tom felt in his pocket for his order pad, scribbled on it and handed me the slip of paper.

‘Here’s my email address, and my mobile. Get in touch when you’re ready.’

‘OK.’

‘Promise?’

I nodded.

‘OK then. Bye.’

‘Bye.’

The bus home went via Timbuktu. I say that to give an indication of how long the journey seemed to take but, in reality, it could actually have gone via Mars given the amount of attention I paid to my whereabouts. I collapsed into the first available seat and rested my head on the window while I replayed the meeting in my head. Tom had
known. He’d known. God, it must have been awful for him growing up. Zoe must have told him who his father was to reassure him that he’d been a good person, rather than some random drunk round the back of the student union. I imagined her buying Dad’s books for Tom, taping some of his TV appearances, and showing them to her son.

‘That’s your father,’ she might have said. She’d have been proud. ‘He’s a very clever man.’

Maybe Tom had Googled Dad and found out about me that way. It was no secret that the famous Dr Robert Stevens had a wife and daughter.

I shut my eyes and let the vibrations of the bus’s diesel engine soothe my brain. While my own childhood had been far from perfect, at least I’d had two parents while Tom had grown up an illegitimate child with a presumably impoverished twenty-something mother. I’d seen their house. Our lives had been so different.

On my lap, my bag buzzed. I pulled out my phone and saw a notification from Twitter: ‘Tom Peters followed you. @TeePee94.’

I clicked ‘Follow’, then, before my sensible self could prevent it, quickly typed a Direct Message: ‘Hello again’ and pressed send. As first words between siblings went, they weren’t outstanding, but this wasn’t a time for poetry. I stared out of the bus window and waited for a return ping, relaxed as soon as it came, then held off looking at the message, savouring the moment. Not only did I have a half-brother, I was holding a phone on which there was a message from my half-brother. I was in touch with
my brother. Finally, I took a deep breath and opened the message.

‘Hello. Nice to meet you today,’ was Tom’s reply.

‘Likewise.’

I waited. There was no response, so I typed in ‘What time do you finish?’, then deleted it. I thought for a bit, muttering sentences out loud to myself. I wanted to say something light-hearted and engaging, but nothing sprang to mind. Sighing, I wrote, ‘Did you know it was me yesterday?’ and clicked send.

‘Sort of,’ came the reply. ‘Wasn’t sure until your bf said your name. Then I realised; Evie’s not common. When you came back today … #happy’

‘How long have you known?’ I ignored the bit about Luca being my ‘bf’—boyfriend, I guessed he meant—in the general scheme of things, it wasn’t important.

‘A few years. It’s complicated.’

‘I’ve only just found out about you!!! I had no idea!!’

‘You said. Judging by the!!! it was a shock. I’m not that bad :p’

‘Understatement. There’s so much I want to ask you.’

‘I’m back to uni day after tomorrow. Exams. But we’ll get together soon. Talk. Long overdue.’

‘OK.’

The afternoon had broken by the time I slid the key into the front door. The house alarm started beeping: Mum was out. I made a cup of tea and collapsed on the sofa, shoving
one of Mum’s property magazines out of the way. Picking up my phone, I checked in case Tom had sent any more messages—nothing. Unable to settle, I got up, went to the bookshelf, pulled a book down, read the blurb, flicked the pages, put it to my nose, inhaled the scent of the ink, and placed the book back. I ran my finger along the shelf, drawing a line in the thin layer of dust. I looked in the mirror over the fireplace, flipped my hair about, thought about getting a haircut, put it in a ponytail, then took it out again. How was I supposed to relax after a morning like that?

Throwing myself back on the sofa, I dialled Luca’s number.

‘Tom knew about me,’ I said, as soon as he picked up.

‘What?’ said Luca. ‘How do you know? What’s happened?’

‘I went back.’

‘To Harry’s Café? On your own?’

‘Yep. I had a coffee, did some work there, had a chat to Tom …’

‘And then what? How did you find out that he knew?’

‘I asked him!’ I twiddled my finger in the phone cord, enjoying reliving the moment. ‘It was kind of obvious that he knew. He heard you say my name yesterday and put two and two together.’

‘Wow, Evie. I’m impressed,’ said Luca. I pictured him sitting on his black leather sofa, stroking his chin. ‘Very impressed. So what happens now? How did you leave it?’

I started to explain about our Twitter conversation and
our plan to meet up later when there was a crash and a laugh from outside, then the sound of Mum’s key in the lock.

‘Gotta go!’ I cut the call and slid my phone back into my bag. The living room door burst open and Mum practically fell into the room, her hair whipped from the wind, her eyes bright and her cheeks rosy. Richard, right behind her, did a double take when he saw me.

‘Oh hello, dear,’ Mum said. ‘Bumped into Richard at the club. We did a quick nine holes.’

‘Hello again,’ Richard said smoothly. ‘Your mum was ever so kind to let me tag along. I’m still learning. Bit of a hacker, really.’

‘You do yourself down,’ said Mum. She held an envelope. ‘Oh, post for you, by the way. From Oxford.’ She examined her brother’s writing. ‘Who do you know there?’

‘No idea,’ I said. ‘But, if you’ll both excuse me?’ I took the envelope and headed up to my room, closing the door carefully behind me. I slit open the envelope with my finger and pulled out the folded page. My uncle’s writing looked like a drunken spider had danced the tango across the page and I squinted to read it.

‘Dear Evie, It was kind of you to let me know that your father had passed away. My thoughts are with you at what must be very a difficult time. I saw Robert’s obituary in the papers and wondered if I should get in touch with you now it’s just you and your mother. Although I agonised over it, I decided, in the end, not to, as I would never wish to cause any trouble between you and your mother. Would I be right in assuming that she’s unaware that you wrote to me?

‘Evie, I hope that you are all right. You mention briefly that your mother had some sort of a mental breakdown after your brother’s accident and that you’re concerned about her. Although I doubt I’d be of much use at all, sometimes it helps to talk these things over with someone who’s not caught up in the epicentre, so to speak. As your uncle, I’d be very happy to do that if you felt it might be useful. Perhaps I could be of some help. I’ve included my telephone number and I leave it with you. The last thing I want is to cause trouble between you and your mother
.

‘With fond regards, David.’

I read the letter again. Was there a hidden message in there?
‘Evie, I hope that you are all right.’
Was he trying to tell me something? He’d practically asked me to call him. Was there something he wanted to tell me?

‘S
o
,
Evie. Are you all set for university?’ It was our last ever session and Miss Dawson had brought us each a muffin to celebrate
.

‘Hope so!’

She took out a book of matches, placed a small candle on my muffin and lit it. ‘Make a wish!’ she said. I shut my eyes and blew
.

‘It’s an exciting time,’ she said, as we sat down with our muffins. ‘You’ll have a blast.’

‘Yeah.’ I looked at my plate. ‘But it makes me sad to think that Graham never got to go to university. I often wonder what he’d have been like as a teenager. You know—sporty, a swot, serious, the class clown? ‘Miss Dawson smiled and I laughed. ‘Probably the latter. The thing is, Graham is always held up as this perfect kid. He was, like, the golden boy when he died. But who knows if that would have lasted? He might have gone totally off the rails. He was idolised aged ten. He can’t make mistakes. His future is always golden.’

‘Goodness, Evie. But yes. That’s something you can never know.’

‘And what about me and Graham? When he died, we
were really close. I always imagine we would have stayed close. But, having seen the way my friends fought with their siblings as they got older, it probably wouldn’t have lasted.’ I bit my lip. ‘He’d be twenty now; possibly at university—maybe have a girlfriend. Or maybe he’d have got a job and moved out. Maybe we’d have grown apart, never been close again. I hate that I’ll never know.’

Miss Dawson moved to say something, but I held up my hand. ‘I often wonder how things would have turned out for all our family if he hadn’t died. I mean, it’s easy to pin all our troubles on what happened—Mum’s suicide attempt, being put in the hospital, Dad becoming distant—but what if it wasn’t just that? Who’s to say none of that would have happened anyway?’

‘We’ll never know.’

‘No, I guess we never will.’

I
was desperate to email Tom. But finding time without Mum asking what I was doing was tricky. Whenever I opened up the iPad, she was there, looming over me, offering cups of tea or asking coquettishly about how things were going with Luca. Suddenly, I missed my home; the peace and solitude I had living in my own little space. But my salvation came in the form of rubbish television. I’d had no idea Mum liked it so much. In the past, my parents had spent their evenings either watching ‘edifying’ programmes or reading—either that, or Dad had slunk off to work in his study.

But Mum was now revealing a side of herself that I’d never known. Each week when the TV listings arrived with the Sunday paper, she spent a good hour going through the booklet marking the programmes she wanted to watch and I realised that this was my chance. After we’d washed and dried the dishes, when Mum settled down in front of the telly, I was able to settle myself at the dining table with a glass of red wine and my iPad. Tonight, I was going to email Tom. My fingers were tacky on the screen as I sweated over what to write. In the end, after several false starts when I
was trying to be more than I really was, I just went for the questions: How did you know it was me? How did you find out? What did you think when I walked into the café? Do you want to stay in touch?